


John Doe #103679

by anaranjada



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, F/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaranjada/pseuds/anaranjada
Summary: Follow-up to 3x01 (canon divergent from that point forward.) Laurel gets her answer.





	1. Chapter 1

It had been months; she’d long since stopped expecting an answer. 

When one came, then--late one Saturday night, when she could not sleep--the jolt to her heart wasn’t entirely pleasant. She almost hung up at the sound of the other end’s click; barely stopped herself. Waited just a beat too long, though, and was met with a voice. A _voice; a tired, urgent “hello?”_

Laurel swallowed thickly; wondered if she’d fallen asleep, after all, and if this was a dream. She could hear a drunk man ranting outside her window, though, and the faint ring of a siren, and the pounding of her head certainly _felt_ real. Finally, she sat up, cross-legged, and held the phone more tightly to her ear. “Hi. Is…” She paused. Thought. “Where did you get this phone?” 

No response; Laurel thought she heard shuffling papers in the background on the other end, and muffled voices speaking. Finally, the woman returned. “Ma’am, I’m with the NYPD. This phone was found at the scene of a crime,” she said. “Can I have your name, please?” 

For a moment, then, everything stopped. Laurel tried to keep herself together--to slow the beating of her heart, get her brain back online, consider the myriad meanings of “crime”--but all she could do was open her mouth and stutter out an answer. “I...I know him,” she said. “The...this is...my friend’s phone. Can I…” She pulled her own phone away from her face for a moment; hoped the woman couldn’t hear her sob, or the sharp intake of air that followed. After a moment, she stilled herself; shut her eyes; carried on. “Was he...was there a man there? Did you...find him?” 

_God,_ she sounded like a child, but a cold part of her whispered that that was for the good. _You sound real,_ it said. _Keep going._

Sure enough, when the woman spoke again, her voice was softer; the urgency remained, but Laurel could tell she was trying to hide it. “What’s your friend’s name, hon?” 

_Shit._ “...Jimmy,” Laurel said. “I...I don’t know his last name--it...wasn’t like that, but…” She paused; took what might have been a steadying breath, had it accomplished a damn thing. “Is he...is he alright?” 

A long silence, then, like a punch to Laurel’s gut. When the woman spoke, her tone was professional; all business. “What does Jimmy look like, ma’am?” She asked. “Could you describe him for me?” 

“He’s…” Laurel’s voice came out shaky. “He’s...tall, with a beard, brown hair, and…” _Fuck._ “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s…” 

Another long pause. “We did find a body,” the woman said. “Male. Caucasian. Brown hair.” More shuffling papers, then. “Six foot one. No tattoos, no identifying marks. No beard, but…” 

“I’ll come,” Laurel said. “Where...where is he? I need to…” She tried and failed to conceal another sob. “I need to...see if it’s him. Can I…?” 

“Where are you calling from, ma’am? I’m seeing a...Philadelphia area code. Is there anyone closer who could--” 

Laurel felt herself shaking her head, the phone was sweaty against her face. Her hands were shaking; she wondered, again, when exactly she’d wake up. “No,” she said. “I...I can come. I’ll drive up, tonight. Is that...will you let me see him?” 

The woman sighed. “It can wait until the morning,” she said. “The detectives working the case aren’t here, all the morgue assistants are--” 

“I’ll be there in two hours,” Laurel said, and ended the call. 

*** 

It wasn’t safe to drive, the way she was, she knew that, but anything else would have been too slow. The roads were quiet, anyway; she could have done it blind. A wild, angry part of her wished that she would. _He’s dead,_ it said. _He’s fucking_ dead, _and you’re alone, fucking alone, after all. He’s--_

She shook her head, again and again; roused herself, brought herself back down to earth. _Get there,_ she told herself, whenever her mind began to drift. An hour in or so, the words came out loud. “Calm down. Stay awake. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. Get there, okay, and then…” She sobbed. Hit the wheel with the heel of her hand before correcting the swerve she’d caused. “Get there,” she muttered. 

She kept on driving. 

*** 

She hit redial just past the Holland tunnel, and a few rings later, the woman from earlier answered, sounding more exhausted than ever. “Ma’am, as I told you earlier, I--” 

“I’m here,” Laurel said. Her free hand was steady by then on the wheel; she navigated the turns on autopilot, slowing as she pulled onto a surface road. “What’s the address?” 

The woman sighed. “You might have to wait,” she said. “Could be an hour. Could be longer. Go get a coffee. I can call you when--” 

“I don’t need coffee.” Laurel’s voice was hard; cold. A voice she wasn’t sure she’d had before law school, but one that came so naturally, now. This time, though, there was something raw beneath it; something hot and harsh and out of her control. “Tell me where he is.” 

Another sigh. “520 First Avenue,” she said. “I’ll see if I can reach one of the detectives.” 

Laurel took a deep breath; pulled over to the curb, and let it out as slowly as she could. “Thank you,” she said. “Really, I...thank you.” 

“Mhm.” The woman’s grimace was practically audible. “You do stop for coffee, pick up an extra for whoever meets you. Might help. Might.” 

Laurel did not respond; just hung up and entered the address into her GPS. 

*** 

She arrived to find two men waiting. The older one was tall, fat and bleary-eyed, carrying an almost comically large thermos. The other was younger, maybe forty, and stood up straighter when he spotted her, eyes almost alarmingly bright for the hour. “You’re the woman who called in about the John Doe?” he asked. “Miss…” 

“Mendoza,” Laurel said. “Allison. And...yeah, I...it might be my friend. His...his phone was there, at the...scene, and…” 

The man nodded; stuck out his hand to shake. “Aaron Zhang,” he said. “I’m the detective working the case. Nice to meet you.” 

The other man stepped forward next, and engulfed her hand in his. “Larry Zumwalt,” he said. “City coroner. Thank you for coming.” 

His tone was dry, tired, utterly unremarkable, but something in his face set the tears crawling up Laurel’s throat once more; twisted her stomach and turned it to stone. _Pity,_ she realized. _Behind his eyes._ She’d pushed everything down, again and again, along the way, but those eyes brought it surging back--where she was. What she was about to see. _Might see,_ she reminded herself. _Might,_ but it was no use, and she felt herself blinking faster; blinking away tears and sleep and the despair that had been building since that night in his cleared-out apartment. 

It took her a moment to notice that the man’s hand had gone slack in hers; that he was pulling gently away, angling himself toward the door. She shook herself; withdrew her hand, crossed her arms, and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s...let’s do this.” 

She followed them through the entranceway, down a long hallway and into a small, dim room, punctuated only by a window on one wall. _The viewing booth,_ Laurel thought. _Safe distance._ The coroner proceeded through another door, and after a moment, the morgue itself came into view through the glass. A sheet-covered lump lay on a metal table, lit harshly from above, and Laurel felt bile rising in her throat. She wasn’t squeamish; never had been. With what she’d seen, growing up, she couldn’t afford to be. This, though… 

_Fuck._

She turned around; braced her arms across her body and tried to breathe evenly. Hell, tried to breath at all, through the rising panic in her chest. Tried to keep her wits, or what was left of them. 

A hand on her shoulder, then, briefly, till she flinched and wheeled around to face the detective. “Take your time,” he said. “If you need a few minutes, we can--” 

Laurel straightened up; squared her shoulders and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m ready,” she said. “Just...let’s just get it over with.” 

The detective gestured through the window to the coroner, then, and under Laurel’s watchful eye, he pulled back the sheet.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, it was him; she’d swear, later, that she saw his features in the cold, dead face before her. A blink, though, and the picture shifted; this man, this body was older, rougher around the edges. His hair was graying just a bit, and the lines in his face bespoke decades of anger. 

Laurel let out a sob of relief. _Not him. Not him, not him, not him, not--_

A hand on her shoulder again; soft, hesitant. “Ma’am, I--” 

“It’s not him,” she said. “It’s...it’s not...god, I…” She turned; met the detective’s eyes. “It’s not him.” 

She closed her eyes, then; felt the relief soak in. Felt the tension leave her body till the detective was reaching out to break her fall. “I’m alright,” she said, straightening up, stepping back, away. “I’m...god. It’s okay. It’s not him. Jesus, I…” She looked up, again, through tears. “Thank you. I’m...sorry for making you come out here in the middle of the night, but…” 

The coroner emerged from the morgue, then. “Verdict?” 

The detective shook his head. “Says it’s not him,” he said. He faced Laurel again. “Don’t suppose you know who it _is?”_

Laurel shook her head. “Sorry, I...no. I’ve never met him before. I don’t know… _how_ the phone got there, but...that’s not him.” 

She couldn’t stop saying it; each time, the sound of it ricocheted through her so nicely. _Not him, not him, not_ dead. 

The detective’s brow furrowed, then. “Nor do we,” he said. “Miss Mendoza, do you think you could come down to the station with me, answer a few questions?” 

_Shit._ “I...I really need to get back,” she said. “I have...work, in the morning, and--” 

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Ma’am, we’d really appreciate your help. We’d like to find Jimmy, as I’m sure you would; anything you know could--” 

She shook her head on instinct; crossed her arms and eyed the door. “No,” she said. “I can’t. I’ve got to--” 

The detective stepped in front of her on her way to the door, but she dodged; made eye contact with the pathologist--her witness--before facing the detective head on. “Am I under arrest?” she asked. “Do you plan on detaining me, or can I go?” 

A brief standoff, but it didn’t take long for the detective’s face to fall. “You can go,” he said. “But if you’d leave your number, we’d like to--” 

“The precinct has my number,” she said. “On Jimmy’s phone.” She pulled the door open. “Goodbye. Thank you both, again.” 

*** 

Dawn was breaking when she stepped outside. She didn’t revel, though, though her heart beat fast and her tears, this time, were full of adrenaline and joy. No, she walked quickly to her car; did not pause to buckle her seatbelt before tearing off into the early-morning cab traffic. She didn’t go far; around one corner, two, before parking again and pulling out her phone. 

Bonnie’s voice was groggy when she answered, three rings later. “Laurel?” 

Laurel sighed; hoped her voice wouldn’t fail her, at this of all moments. “If Frank were in New York,” she said, “Where would he go?” 

Bonnie groaned. “Laurel…” 

“I’m already here. It’s...a long, _long_ story, but...he’s here, _somewhere,_ and--” she felt her voice breaking again, and _dammit,_ there were the tears. “And he’s alive. And...I need to see him, okay? I need to...make sure. But…” 

Bonnie was silent; for a moment, Laurel thought she’d hung up. When she strained, though, she could hear breathing on the other end; a long breath in, then a sigh. _Relief?_

Whatever it was, it was gone when Bonnie spoke again; her voice was as dry, as deadpan as ever. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “There are some things you don’t tell anyone; you of all people should know that by now.” 

Laurel’s sigh this time was short, harsh; almost a snort. “Bonnie, this is fucking...important. He...his phone, it was at a crime scene. I...I called, and...a _cop_ answered, okay? There was...there was a body. And--” 

“What did you tell them? Laurel, what did you--” 

“Nothing. _Nothing,_ Bonnie, I...I didn’t give them my name, or his, alright? Jesus. I just...I need to find him. The...guy they found, he was...really beat up. There was a struggle. Frank might be…” She sighed again. “He wouldn’t go to a hospital, would he? Even if…” 

Bonnie’s voice softened some, then. “No. No, he wouldn’t. But Laurel…” 

“Do you care about him? Do you...does he matter to you, at all?” 

“Laurel, it’s not that _simple._ You can’t just--” 

“Because I do. And...he needs somebody, right now. He...he _fucked_ up, and I know that, and...and I should hate him, but…” She paused. _But?_ “But right now, I can’t. And I need to see him.” 

Finally, she’d hit her stride; her voice was strong, and barely wavered. There was nothing more to say, though, so...she waited. 

Bonnie sighed. “43rd and Main,” she said. There’s a Chinese restaurant on the corner; go to the basement door and knock till someone answers.” 

“Thank you. Is there...do you want me to tell him anything?” 

Bonnie hesitated, but Laurel didn’t dare rush her. Finally, Bonnie responded, voice a bit broken. “Tell him not to make it so damn easy next time,” she said. “New phone, every week, no exceptions. And...tell him to stay gone till I clean this up, alright? Don’t you dare bring him back with you. Laurel, do you hear me?” 

Laurel smiled, peering out her window at the sunrise. “I will,” she said. “Thank you, again. I’ll...I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank--” 

The line went dead. 

*** 

It took what Laurel would swear was a solid minute of knocking for someone to answer the door. Not Frank; a kid, twelve or thirteen, pimply and poker-faced. “The fuck you want?” 

Laurel faltered, but only for a moment. “Is there...a man here? Tall, white, brown hair, has a beard?” 

The kid’s face didn’t change. “Nobody here. Bye.” 

She stopped the door with her foot; managed not to wince when he slammed it anyway. “Look, I know he’s probably...a friend of your dad’s, or something, and...I guess he asked you not to tell anyone he was here, right?” She nodded, though he didn’t. “I’ve been there. When I was your age, I played lookout too. But see, that guy? He’s my friend, and--” 

“Move your fuckin’ foot, bitch.” 

_“Ow!_ Jesus, I--” 

An older man appeared in the doorway, then; sure enough, his features matched the boy’s. He poked the boy in the back, face stern. “Go,” he said, and the boy complied, eyes down, not so hard anymore. 

The man faced Laurel, then. “The hell are you?” 

“I’m here for Frank,” she said. “I...heard he might be here? I’m not here to hurt him, I just...I’m a friend. Could you let him know I’m here, or--” 

He cut her off with a raised hand. Shook his head. “No Frank here,” he said, but Laurel saw the lie in his eyes, in the way he looked away too quickly. 

She straightened up; waited for his eyes to rise, checking for belief. “Look, I just wanna talk to him, okay? If he’s here...tell him it’s Laurel, and that I’m alone. Tell him Bonnie said--” 

The man furrowed his brow, crossed his arms. “Told you, nobody’s here. Now go. I got customers, things to do. I can’t--” 

_“Please._ I have...money, if you--” 

“He left, alright? He’s gone. Didn’t tell me where. Now get the fuck off my property, or I’ll--” 

Laurel’s heart sank; she’d seen his tells, and there were none on his face anymore. This, _this_ was the truth she’d come for, and it was worth jack shit. 

“Alright,” she said. Her own voice rang hollow in her ears. “Okay. I’m...sorry. But if he--” 

The door slammed in her face before she could finish. She didn’t even flinch. 

*** 

So...she walked away. Down the street, around the corner and down another, over and over till she was somewhere else; somewhere far away. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care. It wasn’t even sadness, really, then; no, the body wasn’t his, and that was...enough. Sort of. No, she was...deflated. Hope had had a moment to take hold, and it had dug its teeth in deep. She cursed Bonnie in her mind, though a part of her knew it was petty, useless. Bonnie’s word had been solid; Frank _had_ been where she’d said. Perhaps if Laurel had arrived a day sooner, or an hour… 

_Stop._ She shook her head; pushed her hair back from her face and took a look around. She spotted a coffee shop across the street, and her stomach whined. She felt her senses coming back to her, then--the hollow feeling in her gut that wasn’t _entirely_ emotional, and the wheedling pressure behind her eyes, the beginning of caffeine withdrawal. She sighed. Pressed the balls of her hands into her eye sockets till she saw colors, then blinked them open. _Food,_ she told herself. _Coffee. Awake, awake. Go._

And she did; entered the shop, ordered a tall mocha from a flirty barista, chose a goddamn scone, and managed some semblance of a smile as she thanked him. Autopilot; compartmentalization. She’d been good at it, always, and it did not fail her then. She felt dirty, though, as she sipped a drink she couldn’t taste and broke the scone into ever smaller pieces. Felt cold. Empty. _Wrong._

The vibration of her phone sent a full-body shiver down her spine. She pulled it out of her pocket; a number she didn’t recognize. She almost didn’t answer; considered returning the phone to its place and returning to...whatever it was she’d been doing. The area code made her pause, though: not Philly, not Miami, not Mexico City or anywhere else she recognized on sight. Finally, she ran a shaking finger across the screen to answer. 

“Hello?” 

A shaky sigh on the other line; one that stole her breath. “Laurel.”


	3. Chapter 3

She was out the door like a shot, leaving a pile of scone crumbs and half a mug of coffee on the table without a backward glance. The sun was out in full force by then, and she squinted into it; blinked wildly before settling her tear-smeared gaze on the sidewalk below. Her breath caught as she held the phone tightly to her ear. “Frank? Are you...where are you? I--” 

“Wiltshire Hotel. 8th street. Room 315.” 

He hung up before she could reply. 

She wouldn’t remember, later, how she retraced her steps to her car, or how she found the hotel; wouldn’t remember passing three flustered bellboys, mounting the stairs when the elevators took too _fucking_ long, or counting down the room numbers as she jogged past, waiting for his. All she’d remember was the sound of blood rushing in her ears, the static buzz of adrenaline just beneath her skin as she knocked on the door, hard, harder, till it swung open beneath her reddening fist. 

For a moment, he was a stranger: a clean-shaven skinhead with an angry purpled gash across his face, dressed in a white wifebeater and low-slung jeans. It didn’t seem possible; _right._ When his eyes lit on hers, though, greenish gray in the sterile light, a pang of familiarity shot through her, and a lump rose in her throat. 

It was him. 

For a moment, his face lay clear and open, eyes soft and bright and just what she’d missed; his lips parted, as though to speak, but no words came. She could hear his breathing clearly in the silent room. On instinct, she stepped forward, toward him. 

When she did, though, he shook his head; stepped back and steeled his eyes. 

“C’mon,” he said, averting his eyes, gesturing behind him. “Inside.” 

The room was dim, lit only by a standing lamp in the far corner. The bed was unmade, fitted sheet hanging limply from three corners, and clothes littered the floor. Laurel almost laughed; might have, had he looked a bit more like he’d join her. Instead, he frowned; stared into the corner, arms crossed, and sighed. “The hell are you doin’ here, Laurel?” 

She scanned his body quickly; wondered where exactly she could hit him without tearing open a wound. Before she could, though--before she made it past his battered face and the faint thumb-shaped bruises on his neck--she felt hot tears on her cheeks; felt her rage and pain and relief boil over, not with a bang but with a whimper, after all. Heard her own useless sob before the words could come. 

“What am I--” Her laugh was hysterical. “Well, let’s see: I called you--called you _again,_ not that it did any _damn_ good the first fifty times. I called you, because I’m a...fucking _idiot.”_ She wiped away a few traitorous tears; looked down, away, because there was no way she could meet his eyes for the rest; no way her pride could take it. “And I...I wanted to make sure you were _okay,_ and...and a fucking _cop_ answered. Said your phone was in _evidence._ Said there was a fucking… _body._ Asked if I could--” 

“What’d you say?” His voice was urgent, and just a bit harsh. “What’d you...what’d you tell them, Laurel? That I--” He sighed; looked into the distance, and took a deep breath. “Do they know my name?” 

She did hit him, then; shoved his shoulder till it nearly knocked the door frame behind him and met his eyes with a renewed spark of rage. Practically hissed when she spoke. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I was Allison Mendoza, looking for my casual hookup, _Jimmy._ You’re safe to keep…” She glanced behind him. “Hiding in this shithole. Sending the cleaners away. Congratulations. You’ve made it.” 

She willed herself to push past him, then, and go home; wished for that kind of strength, though she knew it wouldn’t come. Willed herself, at least, to slap his hand away when it reached for hers. 

Instead, she tugged him toward her; almost roughly, but when his chest met hers and her arms wrapped around him, she felt a sort of gentleness she hadn’t thought she had left in her. Felt him melt against her, and held tighter. Stuck her nose into the crook of his neck and breathed in what was mostly the scent of days-old takeout, but dammit, she didn’t care; couldn’t care, because it wasn’t formaldehyde, and _fuck_ if she wasn’t lucky. 

He held her back; ran his hands over her shoulders, through the tangled ends of her hair. Breathed her in as she had him: the scent of city exhaust and unclaimed corpses. Muttered something, finally, into the crown of her head. “‘M sorry. Laurel, I… _fuck,_ I’m sorry. I just--” 

“You’re an idiot,” Laurel said, nudging his knee with hers. “Fuck you. _Fuck_ you.” 

He laughed first, but she was quick to follow. 

*** 

They stood like that for god knows how long, moving only to adjust their grips. Bit by bit, Laurel took stock. Beyond the obvious, he’d changed; he was thinner than she remembered, sharp in places he’d once been soft, and when she ran her hand over a spot on the back of his neck, she felt the rough edges of surgical stitching. He stifled a wince, a gasp, and she moved her hand away. It wasn’t time for questions, yet; this--this physical reunion, this touch was all either of them was ready for. It was enough. 

It was the sharp rasp of his day-old stubble on her shoulder that led Laurel to pull back. She reached up, ran a hand over the sandpaper surface, and let out a low laugh. “Feels _weird,”_ she murmured. 

He furrowed his brow, theatrically, as though hurt, but leaned into the touch; let his eyes fall closed after a moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Missed you.” 

She moved her hand, then; returned it to the spot she’d found earlier, the line of jagged stitches. Her touch was light, gentle, but still, she felt him tense beneath it. She waited for him to open his eyes, meet hers, before speaking. “What _happened,_ Frank? Why was your phone there?” 

He turned his head, began to pull away, but she held fast; turned him back to face her, and shook her own head. “I’m not...I won’t leave. I just...I need to know, okay? No more secrets.” 

He sighed; averted his eyes, but stayed put. “Annalise sent him,” he said. “The...guy they found. I saw him outside my hotel, on the phone with her, and...” He looked up, then, into her eyes. Nervous. Almost pleading. “He was gonna kill me, Laurel. He was waiting for her cue, so I…” 

Laurel didn’t, couldn’t speak; just shook her head, swallowing back a wave of nausea. “A...a _hitman?”_

Frank crossed his arms; nodded. “Can’t say I _blame_ her, but…” He shrugged. Looked up briefly before returning his eyes to the floor. “I did what I had to. Got him before he got me.” 

Laurel shook her head again, a slight, jerky movement. Crossed her own arms protectively, and averted her gaze. “I can’t… _shit,_ Frank, I--” 

“Go.” Tears ran down his cheeks, then, but he brushed them away. “You shouldn’t have come. I’m...sorry you wasted your time, but...you gotta go, alright? And...try not to get wasted and tell them, would you? I wanna get a head start this time.” 

A beat, then; a shift in the air between them. They were maybe three feet apart, but frozen, neither moving, neither fucking _breathing._ Finally, Laurel broke; let out a weak half-sob, and closed the gap. She hit him again, but it was barely a blow; no, her hand fell open-palmed against his chest, over his heart, and stayed there long past impact. She fought herself; lost. Stayed put, touching him. Let her tears fall. 

His face softened, and he let out a sigh. “Laurel--” 

She straightened up; pushed her hair back and fixed her eyes on his; pretended she weren’t crying. “You can trust me, okay? I know I’ve...fucked up, but...I won’t say anything.” 

It took him a moment, but he nodded. “‘M sorry,” he said.“I just...” 

She nodded back, one short, sharp movement. “Yeah. I...I know. And… _I’m_ sorry, for…” She let out what was maybe a laugh. “Everything, I guess. Almost getting you killed, and...” 

He shook his head; took her hand and held it, stroking his thumb across her palm. “Nah. This? This was her, alright? Not you.” 

Laurel felt another sob roll through her; tried and failed to hold it in. It was full day by then, on no sleep, and he was here, and she was just so _tired…_

His arms were around her again, then, her face tucked into his shoulder before she could think to insist she was fine. 

_Fuck it,_ she thought. She let herself be held. 

She might have fallen asleep like that for a moment; might have only blinked awake when he pulled back, face as young and raw and open as she’d ever seen it. “I shoulda called,” he said, and his voice was gravelly, like it was when he’d just woken up in the morning, and _god,_ she’d missed him. “Leavin’ things like that...leavin’ the phone...I--” 

She leaned in again, and this time, she kissed him. 

He stilled for a moment at the touch before slowly, slowly reacting; kissing her back softly, as though afraid she’d flinch away. When she didn’t, though--when she pulled him closer, hands carding through hair so much _shorter_ than either of them were used to, but good, still so good--he held on like a dying man to a raft. She felt his tears between their faces, mingling with her own, and _god,_ they were a mess, a fucking mess, but here with him in this shitty hotel room, she could finally breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

“Did you sleep at all?” 

He spoke the words into her hair, voice rough and low and quiet, and she felt a fresh rush of affection at the sound. Held him tighter as she shook her head. “Was, like, two,” she said. “Got here at, what, four, and then…” She sighed. “No. BUT, it’s morning now, and--” 

He pulled back, then, enough to meet her eyes. Cocked his head toward the bed. “Go on,” he said. “Sleep. Few hours, I’ll wake you up, alright?” 

She pulled herself up straight; freed a hand to run through her hair, then swiped it across eyes she could hardly keep open. “No,” she said. “No, we...we need to talk. I can’t...I came all this way, and you’re gonna tell me what _happened.”_

He met her eyes. A look she knew well--checking just how stubborn she’d be; checking whether it was worth putting up a fight. After a moment, he sighed; ran his hands down her arms till her hands dropped from his, then took a step back. “You’re gonna wanna sit down,” he said, gesturing, once more, to the bed. “Might take awhile.” 

She sat down; held her back straight because she knew, deep down, that if she relaxed even a little bit into the give of the mattress, she’d be a goner. Instead of sitting in the space she’d left beside her, he pulled up battered desk chair, a good two feet away. Laurel felt a twinge at the sight of him, there, fist clenching and unclenching in his lap, eyes darting everywhere but her face. _Fight or flight; a beaten dog, prepared for more._ She felt a second wind of sorts, beating back the cloud of exhaustion threatening to engulf her. She leaned over, arms on her thighs, and waited for whatever was coming. 

He started slow; told her what she already knew, then worked backward--to Sam, to Annalise, to the born-dead baby and the devil’s deal that lasted a decade. He let it all out, every dirty detail, not pausing, barely breathing, and by the time he was done, his voice was not his own; somehow softer and harder all at once, rough and angry but so goddamn sorry, too. 

Laurel barely felt the tears on her cheeks until he was done; didn’t notice how she’d scooted gradually backward, onto the mattress, cross-legged, then further. Backing away from him, her subconscious rejecting it all. He noticed, though; the minute he finished, the minute she looked up, she saw that much. He lowered his head into his hands, then, elbows on his knees, and the tears, the ragged breaths didn’t stop. 

Finally, he looked up again, face beyond fallen. Crushed, beaten, and dead in all the ways that matter, and god, the exhaustion hit her then, all at once. _Numb;_ it hurt, but somehow, in that moment, the pain barely registered. She sighed shakily and met his eyes for the first time since she hadn’t known. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What was there to say? What the _fuck_ was there to say, after.... 

She closed her mouth again, and just let the heavy silence lie. 

Finally, Frank stood. “I’ll...take a walk. Be back in a couple hours. Stay, if you want, or…” His voice broke a bit. “Or go. I won’t...do anything. Call you. Just…” His eyes were glassy when they met hers. “Be safe, okay?” 

Laurel almost stood; almost stopped him. In the end, though, she waited till he was almost out the door to even speak. “I’ll be here,” she said. “Don’t...do anything stupid, okay?” 

His smile was faint and fake, but he nodded. Blinked once, long and slow to clear his eyes...then went. 

*** 

She willed herself, upon his exit, to move from the bed; go to the desk, the hard-backed chair. Some place less...personal, less soft. In the end, though, she settled for leaning against the headboard, eyes open. _Can’t sleep now, anyway,_ she told herself. _Not after…_

No, sleep would not come. She knew herself better than that; knew from her racing heartbeat, her racing thoughts that it was too late for that. _No escape. No reprieve._ She’d been there before, had lost countless nights of rest that way as a child, but not like this; never to this degree. Never so sharp. 

_A baby._ She pictured him, then, small and gray, still, and cold in Annalise’s arms. Pictured Annalise, too, crying over his lifeless form. She’d never seen Annalise cry, but the image was so clear now; too clear, too bright. 

After who-knows-how-long, though, more pictures came: of Frank, slow realization dawning on his younger face; of the guilt she’d just seen spreading across his features, settling in his eyes to hibernate, silent, till that night in his apartment. Of a Frank who didn’t know, _couldn’t_ know, just how far things would go. How high the body count would get; how much blood would find its way onto his hands. 

She sighed; settled lower into the bed, though still upright, dammit; still awake. They deserved that much--Annalise, the baby. _Lila._ They all deserved thought, _real_ thought, unhindered the smell of Frank’s shampoo on the sheets. 

So she ran them through her head, one after the other, on a forced loop: _Annalise, baby, Lila, Annalise, baby, Lila, Annalise…_

When her eyes fell shut, though--when she finally, finally lost the fight--it was Frank she thought of; his face to which she fell asleep. 

*** 

He was there again when she awoke. She almost started at the sight of him beside her, head inches from her hand on the mattress. A crane of her neck told her he sat cross-legged on the floor; it couldn’t have been comfortable, but the quilt-pattern printing on his cheek told her he’d been there awhile. She recognized the sleepy murmurs he made, the way his eyelids rippled in dreams. 

For a moment, that was all she saw: the man she loved, still, soft and childlike and well on his way to a monstrous backache. She almost smiled. Almost. 

It hit her, though, as it had to: what he’d told her. What he’d _done._ The memories came fast and hard, knocking the air from her lungs, the soft fondness from her sleep-fuzzed mind. 

_Annalise. Lila. Baby._

She rolled over, away from him; couldn’t look. _Shouldn’t._

Killer. Killer. Killer. Liar. 

As the minutes ticked on, though, her dedication wavered; the threads of righteous fury that held her drew taut, till one by one, they snapped. Free of them, she rolled over once more; looked down. Stared. The late-morning light cast his head golden, and something about that caught her; held her there, watching. Most people, she’d found, looked younger in sleep; she’d counted Frank among that lot, too, on those countless nights they’d shared a bed. Now, though, with his furrowed brow and hands somehow still tensed, he looked ten, twenty, a hundred years older. Looked, she thought, like a man with more regrets than victories. 

Alive, though; alive. His chest rose and fell, and monster, heathen, _killer_ that she was...she felt another massive wave of relief. 

She extricated an arm from the covers, then, and ran it over the crown of his head. A gentle touch, but he flinched awake, eyes wide and skittering around the room until they settled on hers. He relaxed some, but she could swear she could see his pulse-point even as he leaned back, feigning calm. “You’re up,” he said. 

She felt herself smiling, just a bit; stroked his head again before gesturing him forward. “C’mere,” she said. “You’re gonna kill your neck like that, and you’re snoring. C’mon. Up.” 

The furrow returned to his brow. “Laurel…” 

She shook her head. “I mean it. I…” She sighed. “Look, I hate it,” she said. “All of it. What you...what you did, and how you… _hid_ it, from all of us, but…” She sighed; looked down, away, but met his eyes once more, and held them steady. “But I don’t hate you. I don’t know what that says about me, but…” She shrugged. “I love you. And I’m so… _fucking_ glad you’re not dead. I…” 

Finally, her voice broke, and she sat up fully; took his face in her hands and forced his eyes onto hers. “I want you here.” Her voice was half whisper, but she saw the words hit home; saw that he knew that she meant it. Watched a bit of awe dawn on his face, and allowed just a bit of a laugh into her voice. “Please?” 

So he did; rounded the bed and crawled in beside her, under rumpled covers and towards her till they touched, just barely, at shoulders, knees and ankles. Till she could rest her head against his shoulder--the permission he needed to take her hand again. To rest his own head over hers, let his muscles relax. To settle. 

A moment later, though, he shifted. Stirred. Spoke. “I’m...so fuckin’ sorry. I--” 

She settled her thumb over the pulse-point of his wrist; moved just enough to meet his eyes. “Go to sleep, Frank.” 

He held her gaze for a moment, eyes still red and just a bit doubtful, but finally, he nodded. “Thank you,” he said. 

She slept more soundly than she had in months.


	5. Chapter 5

She woke to Frank sprawled gracelessly half atop her, one knee between hers, one arm across her chest. The bristly top of his head tickled beneath her nose, but she just chuckled; raised a hand to his lower back and rubbed the spot she knew would make him groan and move yet closer. 

He was warm and safe and _there,_ and she just wanted more. Wanted confirmation with every sense she had that things were good again. That this was real. 

Suddenly, she needed him awake; with her that way, too. Without really thinking, she pursed her lips and blew, sending a jet of cool air right toward his half-hidden face. 

He spluttered for a moment, shifting, waking, before raising his head and meeting her eyes. His brow crinkled, but there was no worry, no real concern on his face. Slowly, a lazy smirk appeared. “The hell?” he murmured. 

She just grinned; ran her hand up his back and over his scalp. “I’m bored,” she said. “Entertain me.” 

His grin grew, then, became almost feral, and he scooted upward, coming to rest beside her, face level with hers. “Yeah, and how d’you want me to do that?” 

She rolled onto her side to face him; took gentle hold of his bicep and moved close enough to ghost her lips over his before pulling back to meet his eyes again. “Oh, I dunno,” she said. “You got any cards? Does this room get HBO?” 

He let out a low laugh she could feel run through them both, and raised a callused hand to her cheek. “Nah. See, that’s why you get the cheap places; gotta make your own fun.” 

She moved forward then; threw her leg over both of his and rolled them till he was beneath her. Coy had its time and place, but this was neither. 

She didn’t quite expect the rush that came over her, then, when her lips met his; adrenaline and warmth and a bone-deep satisfaction that nearly stole her breath. _Like any drug,_ she thought, in the back of her mind; _all the nicer after too much time away._ She kissed him deeply, desperately. She might have been embarrassed, had he been anyone else; had she cared a bit about hiding how damn glad she was to be this close again. His hands roamed her back, then lower, taking hold of her ass and pulling her tighter to him as he broke the kiss, moving his mouth to her neck. She hummed when he kissed her pulse point; held his head there as she arched into him, hips grinding into his on well-earned instinct. He groaned into her neck, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard anything hotter. 

Finally, though, he removed his hands; dropped his head back to the pillow beneath him and waited for her to slow, to stop, to meet his eyes. His own were tender when she did, but heartbreakingly uncertain. “Laurel,” he murmured. “You sure?” 

She almost had to laugh; didn’t, though, opting instead to roll onto her side beside him and run a hand over his clean-shaven cheek. When his eyes, his face didn’t settle, she leaned in to kiss him, gently as she could. “‘M sure,” she said. “God, Frank, I…” She sighed. “I want this, okay? I want you. Unless....” 

He snorted; the hint of sadness didn’t leave his eyes, but he returned her kiss, smirking into it in a way she’d always hated loving so much. “Yeah,” he muttered, dragging the fingers of one hand through her hair just roughly enough to make her hum again. “Yeah, I…” He huffed out a laugh. “‘God…” 

He didn’t go on; just leaned in closer to claim her lips again. He moved slowly, almost hesitantly till he was above her, bracing himself on his elbows, but Laurel was having none of that; she wanted, _needed_ his weight upon her, his body as close to hers as she could get it. It was her turn to grip his hips, the back of his neck, and pull him in. 

Clothes came off clumsily, bit by bit, between heated kisses. Desperate as they were, it took awhile; stripping takes separation, see, and neither of them could stand that for very long. Finally, though, there was nothing between them, and from there, things went quickly. It had been long _enough;_ they both knew that, and when he entered her, her sigh was as much relief as anything else. She pulled his head to her neck, where he bit down just hard enough to bruise, again and again as she urged him on, hands on his neck, his back, and, after awhile, his ass, because _god,_ she need more, faster… 

Neither of them lasted long. Before--before he left, before their months apart--they might have laughed at that, at each other, at themselves, but as it was, they just collapsed, breathless and sated and unwilling, still, to separate. Laurel rolled back onto her side, finally, but pulled him with her, legs still tangled with his. Ran her hand over his chest before leaning in to kiss him again. “God,” she murmured, “I fuckin’ missed you.” 

He chuckled. “Back atcha.” She looked up with a put-on glare at that, and his face grew earnest, though his smile remained. “I did,” he said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You know how fuckin’ hard it was, not to call you back?” 

She pushed herself up on one elbow; took his hand before he could pull back and held it between them. “You should have,” she said. Her voice was soft, but firm. “I know you thought you were...protecting me, or whatever, but…” She looked down at their joined hands. “I don’t need that. I need you; I need to know that you’re...alive, at least.” She met his eyes again. “Can you promise me that? From now on, can you promise...not let me get another call like that?” 

He nodded; squeezed her hand before releasing it and pulling her closer, till her head rested just beneath his chin. She felt the press of his lips through her hair, then a sigh as he ran his hand over her back, her shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was low, husky, as though tears were close. “Promise,” he said. 

She closed her eyes; rested her cheek against his chest and laced her fingers through his. “Good.” 

*** 

By then, they’d slept enough. Once she’d come down, Laurel realized she was hungry; hell, she was _starving._ She shifted in Frank’s arms, waited for him to look, then feigned a pout. “I left my scone for you,” she said. 

He furrowed his brow. “Your…?” 

“I was getting breakfast. When you called.” She ran her hand up his arm till it reached his shoulder, which she patted with a sort of finality. “You owe me food.” 

He smirked; nodded once, like a soldier taking orders. “Guess I do,” he said. “What kinda food you want?” 

She considered leaning across him to the bedside table, choosing something from the room service menu she’d spotted there earlier. Somewhere along the way, the room had become a cocoon; her place with him. Maybe a part of her was scared to leave; scared he’d be gone again, outside. She shook her head at the thought, though, and looked up to where he was still grinning like a fool. “Pizza,” she said. “New York’s beats Philly’s, any day.” 

She could swear he physically recoiled; the offended look on his face might have been the second best thing she’d seen that day. “Out,” he said, only half laughing. “Get _out._ I will not have a goddamn… _heretic_ in my room. In my _bed.”_

She smacked his shoulder, with no real conviction. Stifled her grin just a bit. “‘I’d do anything for you, Laurel,” she said, her imitation embarrassing even to her own ears. “‘Anything you need, I’m here.’” 

He rolled his eyes; crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling, as though only it understood him. When he met her eyes again, though, eyebrows raised, the fondness there was almost too much to bear. “You got me,” he said. “But dammit, you owe me, alright? I’m going against my very… _core_ beliefs, here, and…” He raised a finger in declaration. “I do not do this lightly.” 

She did reach over him, then, to grab her bra from where it had landed on the bedside table. “My hero. Hey, can you reach my...pants?” 

*** 

They dressed as they’d undressed: in pieces, between diversions. Laurel thrilled a bit at how quickly their rhythm had returned, the back-and-forth of their barbs and jabs and gentle concessions. She’d never admit it to him, but she’d missed that almost more than the sex. More than his face, his body, the smell of him on the sheets. She’d missed _him;_ the rest was extra. 

No, she’d never tell him that. 

En route to a pizzeria picked more or less at random, Laurel stopped dead on the sidewalk. “DiMaggios,” she said. “Frank look it up. We’ve got to go.” 

He raised his eyebrows; took her elbow to start them walking again, but dutifully pulled out his phone as he did. “‘M I supposed to know of it?” 

“We used to go there,” she said. “My mom and I, when we were here. It’s…” She shrugged. “I don’t remember much about it, but it was my favorite. Like, in the city. Not my favorite restaurant; my favorite _part._ Of New York City. I can’t believe I forgot about it. It’s--” 

Frank was laughing aloud by then, and pulling her closer. “Jesus,” he said. “Alright, but I’m not walkin’...ten miles, alright? Here, you’re prettier; you hail a cab.” 

She glared, but was secretly pleased when a cabbie stopped less than a minute after she raised her hand. 

DiMaggio’s turned out to be a hole in the wall, complete with torn awnings and faded plastic checkerboard clothes on the tables. Laurel’s eyes lit up, though, and within minutes, they were seated. “Large pepperoni,” Laurel said, without glancing at the menu. “And two of whatever you’ve got on tap. For here.” 

The waitress met Frank’s eyes, but he just shrugged and nodded, handing her the menu he hadn’t even opened. 

“We came to the city with my dad on business trips sometimes,” Laurel said, once the waitress had retreated. “Somehow, mom always held out hope that he’d, you know, skip a meeting or two and be a tourist with us, but…” She shrugged. “Honestly, I was glad he didn’t.” 

Frank grinned. “Bet you told him that, too.” 

Another shrug, then; pride disguised as shame. Laurel leaned back in her seat and tapped his ankle with hers. “Diplomacy came later,” she said. “Kids...it’s not _expected_ then. I’ve grown. I’ve changed.” 

He snorted. “Sure. ‘Course you have.” 

“Oh, like you never…” 

He chuckled. “Never said I didn’t! Hell, I was a little shit.” 

Laurel shuddered. “Remind me of that if I ever get baby crazy, would you? With our luck, it would get the worst of us both.” 

Perhaps they both stilled a bit, then; it passed in a blink, though, and neither said a word about it. 

*** 

Dinner passed in a rush of conversation. Had they _talked_ so much before, Laurel wondered, or was this the build-up from their months apart, finally released? Whatever it was, it led them late into the evening; they didn’t leave the restaurant till the sun had set and the aggression in the waitress’s eyes had gone from passive to active as she mopped around their table. 

“What’d you think?” Laurel asked as they waited once more for a cab. “Good as Philly’s?” 

He groaned. “You’re killin’ me; you know that? It was… _adequate. Had_ I never had Philly pizza before, this… _might_ have been my favorite. _Might.”_

“Six slices, Frank,” she said, shooting him a glance before returning her eyes to the passing traffic. _“Six.”_

“What can I say? I worked up an appetite.” 

She sighed as a cab pulled over for them, and when he slid in beside her, she took his hand. Laughed. “A real date,” she said. “Finally.” 

He scoffed. “We had dates! Come on. We had...the movies! That one time, after work…” 

“It was a B-movie slasher film, Frank! You...you fingered me in the theater! That was not...come on!” 

They couldn’t go on, then; a few too many beers at the restaurant, combined with the look on the driver’s face in the rearview mirror, had them leaning into each other, laughing. It took Frank a few tries to get the hotel name out, and when he finally did, Laurel went in for a high five. 

Frank grinned. “You are… _drunk,”_ he said. 

“I am _not!”_ Laurel lowered her hand over both of theirs; met Frank’s eyes. “I’m just… _happy,_ alright? This is…” 

Frank nodded; draped an arm over her shoulder and leaned his head on hers. “Yeah. Me, too” 

*** 

Back in the room, Laurel flopped onto the bed. “Come,” she said, patting the mattress beside her. “Gluttony’s over; back to sloth and lust.” 

Frank paused, though, still standing. She noticed how his eyes darted past hers, how his arms remained tense at his sides, and sat back up. “What? What’s wro--” 

“You got class tomorrow,” Frank said. “And the clinic. You gotta go home.” 

Laurel balked; stood again, but did not approach him. “What are you...what? I’m not…” She shook her head; crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving. I can miss _class._ I’m...we’ll figure something out, then you’re coming with me.” 

Frank sighed; mimicked her stance, arms over his chest, and lowered his gaze to the carpet. “Can’t do that,” he said. “She’ll...she wants me dead, Laurel, and you know now that she’ll do it.” He looked up, briefly, but at the sight of her tears, he glanced away quickly. “Long as she thinks I’m dead--long as she thinks that body’s mine, when she hears--I’m...safe. Safe-ish, anyway. And I…” 

Laurel did step forward, then, into his space, close enough to strike, though she knew, deep down, that she never would. “No,” she said, cursing the quiver in her voice, the tears welling in her throat. “No, you don’t get to...you don’t get to do that again, okay? You...Bonnie said she’d work on it! That she’d...find a way to get Annalise--” 

Frank reached out; took her upper arms gently in his hands, waiting out her flinch. “That what she said? He asked. His voice was gentle. “She say ‘bring him back, I’m ready,’ or…” 

Laurel sighed; relaxed slightly into his touch. Raised a hand to her own forehead, where a headache was fast returning. “No,” she said, “but...But I can stay, till she is ready! I can--” 

Frank ran one hand up her arm, her neck, till he was cupping her cheek. “No,” he said. “You...you can’t, or...or she’ll know, alright? ‘M sorry, but...you can’t stay here. You gotta go back, and you gotta…” His voice broke a bit; his eyes went above her head, to some spot in the middle distance. “Gotta pretend this never happened. And when she tells you… _if_ she tells you, that I...that I’m dead...can you…?” 

Laurel’s tears fell fat and heavy by then, and she didn’t bother to speak. He was right; she could hear Bonnie’s voice in her head, telling her he was. Telling her that anything else--bringing him back, waiting with him, running away together--would be a death sentence for him; hell, perhaps for both of them. He was right, and this--this interlude, this honeymoon--was coming to an end. She couldn’t look at him; couldn’t meet eyes she knew would be as full as her own. Instead, she just stepped forward, and waited for his arms to wrap around her. Brought her own up to his back and held tight. 

“Come back,” he murmured. “Next weekend, whenever you get a chance. Get a burner; I’ll give you my number, and...call me. It won’t be like before, alright? We can--” 

Laurel nodded, as though this was alright, as though this was anywhere _close_ to acceptable. Held him somehow closer; breathed in the smell of him, then let it out in a sigh against his neck. “I will,” she said. “And...and you’ll call. Dammit, you _will_ call me, if _anything_ happens. And...and you’ll get a new phone every week; Bonnie said to tell you that. And...and eventually, once things...settle, you’ll--” 

He pulled back, then; met her eyes with a sincerity that broke her heart, and nodded. “I will,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’ll...I’ll come back, alright? I will.” 

He took her face in both hands, then, and kissed her, hard. Kissed her as though he’d lied; as though this were the last time, after all, and he was on his way to hell. Kissed her like it could ever be enough. 

When they finally pulled apart, Laurel brushed the tears from her cheeks, and met his eyes as steadily as she could. Took hold of his hands, and forced some semblance of a smile. “Give me your burner number,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get home, okay?” 

He went to the bedside table, retrieved a notepad and pen, and scribbled out what looked like decidedly more than a phone number before returning to her. “Read it when you get home,” he murmured. 

She smiled. Took the slip of paper and put it in her purse before wrapping her arms around his neck once more. “I’m gonna be on Bonnie’s ass like a leech till she fixes this,” she said. “We’ll get you home.” 

Frank nodded, and, after one last tight squeeze, released her. “Go,” he said. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” 

*** 

She drove home in silence. The radio, with its pop-rock love ballads and DJs who always seemed to remind her of Asher these days, felt...wrong, somehow, after the 24 hours she’d had. No, the silence comforted her far more, and by an hour into her drive, she felt almost peaceful. 

She would see him again; that, at least, she knew to be true. And she would not let him go, not again, not for good; if Annalise wouldn’t have him, wouldn’t have the two of them, together, well, there were other cities, other schools, other firms. There was New York, with her favorite pizza and the man she loved. 

Somehow, they would find a way. 

*** 

True to her word, she opened the note in the parking lot of her complex; unfolded it carefully and turned on her domelight to read it. 

_645-825-1923_

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_\--Frank_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know if there are any errors in this, and I'll fix them later. I just really really wanted to get this out before tonight's ep, just in case...well. 
> 
> I might continue this later, but no promises. As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr; I'm chemically-defective.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

She didn’t bother trying to sleep; she’d done little else all day, and anyway, there was work to be done. She checked the clock on her microwave as she passed through her kitchen-- 1:12 AM. Seven hours till her first class of the day; enough time, maybe, maybe, to write the reports due for Civpro and Torts, plus cast at least a cursory glance over the case files Annalise had sent her home with on Friday. Enough time to make herself seem passably prepared for a day as Herself, Minus Frank. 

She put the coffee on; it would be a long night. 

She’d never have admitted it, but she was thankful, on some level, for the work; grateful to have something concrete, something practical to do. Frank was hundreds of miles away, sure, with no clear path to return, and she was helpless, hopeless there in Philly, but in this, anyway--in school, in work--she could move forward. This, she was good at. This, she could do. 

Every twenty minutes or so, she cast a glance at the note-- _I love you, I love you, I love you_ \--and told herself that it didn’t mean goodbye. 

When she shut her laptop, finally, and put down her pen, it was 5:30 AM, and, despite the coffee that had long since overtaken blood as the dominant party in her bloodstream...she was exhausted. _Hour and a half,_ she thought. _Not great, but it’ll do._

Or… 

She grabbed her purse from where she’d left it on the coffee table and made for the door once more. 

The convenience store was predictably empty, save for the least enthusiastic clerk Laurel thought she’d ever seen, who greeted her with an obligatory “G’morning” before returning his eyes to his phone. When Laurel approached the counter almost immediately, though, prepaid phone in hand, his grin looked genuine. Mocking, but genuine. 

“They got nice girls like you hustlin’ nowadays? Shit.” 

Laurel’s tight, silent grin in response must have been as predatory as she’d intended it to be; he averted his gaze near-instantly and rang her up without another word. 

*** 

Back in her apartment, she didn’t bother sitting; just tore the packaging open as best she could with bare hands, fished out the finger-worn note from her coat pocket, and dialed. 

He answered on the second ring; just a sigh in her ear, which she returned. “Hi,” she said. “This is...me. My new number. I...couldn’t sleep, anyway, after...working, so I thought--” 

“Yeah.” His voice was gravelly, and she could hear him shifting in bed; sitting up. “Good. Good, I…” He chuckled. “Good.” 

Laurel smiled, too; sat down where she was, cross-legged in the middle of her living room, surrounded by blister-packed instructions she knew by heart by then. “‘S it cheesy to say I miss you already?” 

“Nah. His tone was light, full of feigned arrogance, but she could hear a tightness to it, too; the sound of a lump in a throat only recently accustomed to such things. “Nah, I...miss you too. Was...good. Havin’ you here. An’...” 

She sighed. “Yeah. I...wish that I could…” 

“Yeah. Yeah, me too, but--” 

“I know.” The words came out on a yawn, and she laid back; sprawled across the carpet, phone still pressed tight to her ear. “I know. But...next weekend? I’ll have Friday off--Middleton Founders’ Day or something--and…” 

“Yeah.” His voice was brighter; more awake, somehow, though she heard his own yawn burgeoning. “Yeah, that...that’d be good. I’ll...be here, and...if I’m not, I’ll call.” 

“Good. And...and we can talk like this, if…” 

“Yeah. ‘Course.” 

She laughed, though tears were coming on again fast. “Feel like a high-school kid,” she said. “Heading off for college; kissing her boyfriend goodbye.” 

He laughed, too. “Better not be any turkey drop this time, though, hear? I know you got...all those hot freshman boys, all those frat parties, but that promise ring cost me all my burger-flipping savings, alright?” 

Neither spoke for awhile after that; too busy giggling like the fucking children they weren’t anymore, but somehow, maybe, wished they could be again. Giggling like innocents as the sun rose outside their windows. 

Finally, Laurel sighed. “Gotta _sleep._ I can get…” She took her real phone out of the pocket of her discarded coat to check the time. “Forty-two minutes, if I conk out immediately, and… _Jesus,_ I think I need it.” 

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Yeah, me too.” She could hear him sinking back into his own bed, and after a pause, he spoke again. “Wanna go full cheese, fall asleep together? Use all our prepaid minutes?” 

Laurel grinned as she made her way to her bedroom; forced out a laugh that sounded half mocking, but didn’t quite mean it, not really. “You wanna sing me lullabies, or what?” 

He snorted. “Depends--you wanna never sleep again?” 

She lay down, shucking her pants and bra from under the covers and settling against cold pillows. “That sounds so much sexier out of context. No. I...let’s just sleep.” 

“Mm. Yeah.” He yawned. “Alright, how’s this work, then? My 80s-high-school experience wasn’t exactly typical. Do I hang up first, or…?” 

She laughed; pulled the covers up higher, over her shoulders and to her chin, and brought the phone down with her. “No, you gotta try to make me do it. Then I try to make you do it, and then you lose and fall asleep first, because I’m stronger than you.” 

“Ohoho, is that how you want this to go?” He sighed. “Nah. We’re grown; you need to sleep. _I_ will be…” He yawned. “I will be a _true_ gentleman, and hang up on you right… _now.”_

He didn’t though; she heard him breathing, still, and huffed out a laugh. “Good night, Frank,” she murmured. “Love you.” 

A snore, then, transmitted across hundreds of miles, and with one last laugh, Laurel fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hi. This is me trying to get back into the swing of this fic, after so many months away. (Sorry, about that, by the way; life happened, and season 3 has been a dumpster fire so far, which hasn't helped.) 
> 
> On that note...I'm stalled. Ideas for how to save these kids' asses are very welcome.


End file.
